The Little Yellow House

Phelelani Makhanya

There is a little yellow house

at the corner of the street,

where the jacaranda

has painted the paving purple.

Every morning the house

appears with a new face.

Its walls look untouched by

the frantic rain that fell at dawn.

Untouched by hands of stray souls

that read walls like braille,

looking for a home at night.

Untouched by muddy feet

of nightmares that cling and climb

walls like lizards in the dark.

I wonder what that little house is made of.

Maybe those curtains are made of concrete.

Maybe those doors are not doors;

they are deceiving paintings on solid walls.

Maybe that house is not a house;

it is a carved facade in the air.

That yard is a minefield, maybe.

The only voice there,

is a sound of unattended mulberries,

hitting the damp ground

like lazy dew drops from a tree.

Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow on 1 December 2022